


Stargazing

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awakened by a nightmare, slave John finds that Sherlock is still up and willing to pay attention to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stargazing

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

The noise of the guns was so loud it deafened him, made his ears ring in his helmet. They’d been seen, they’d been seen, had to get down—face first in the sand, letting people down, the people he’d meant to rescue, the people he’d led out here, the people who’d ordered him not to go. Crawling away, anywhere, knocked sideways by pain tearing through his shoulder—could people live in such pain? Why was it his leg that hurt now, and why were things cold, and where was the sand, the noise, the stars—

John jerked upright in bed and almost immediately doubled back over in pain, drawing his leg up to his chest even though he knew that didn’t do any good. Neither did rocking back and forth, but it was _doing_ something, and that seemed better than doing nothing. He gasped aloud and muffled himself, breathing messily through his nose—he might have his own room here, but the walls were thin. Not that sobs were particularly unusual here.

He rolled over his back and winced, remembering why he was in his room alone tonight. Just after midnight, according to his mobile. Bloody Sally, he though viciously, then chided himself for the curse. She was protecting slaves, that was her job, it was thin protection but all they had. She’d kept John off the rolls today so he could rest and not wince every time he leaned back. It was the best one slave could do for another.

But Sherlock always said John was the worst slave ever.

_Are you awake_? he texted to Sherlock. Immediately after he sent it, he had second thoughts. They grew until suddenly his phone buzzed in his hand, almost making him drop it.

_Naturally_ , Sherlock replied. It was hard to read any particular tone into that. Except, surely, if Sherlock was peeved, he would make it obvious.

_Are you alone?_

_I have some spiders_ , Sherlock wrote back, and for some reason, some mad reason, this made John smile.

_Don’t tell Molly!_ he advised.

_No_ , Sherlock agreed. Then, _Why are you awake?_

John hesitated before answering. He could make up a story about sleeping all day, and now he was all mixed up on the time—you couldn’t tell time in here anyway, there were no real windows.

_Nightmare_ , he replied, watching his fingers type the letters. _I want to see the stars._

There was a long pause and John thought, well, that’s done it, he’s bored now. Might as well be spouting gibberish.

His phone vibrated. _Are you feeling energetic?_ Sherlock asked.

How wrong was it that John’s spirit lifted at this response? On a scale of one to ten. _Yes_ , he replied. Maybe twenty-three.

_Get dressed_ , Sherlock ordered.

John practically tripped on the sheets in his hurry to get out of bed. There was not much in the way of furnishings here—bed, shelves, clothing rod for hanging things—so it was not difficult to quickly change from his sleeping clothes into something more substantial. He barely noticed the twinge in his back now, except when he twisted in some weird way. The communal bathroom was empty this time of night and John quickly washed his face and brushed his teeth—Sherlock was a stickler for oral hygiene.

Then he realized he didn’t have anything else to do, and he went back to his room to sit on the edge of the bed. How long had it been? Ought he to meet Sherlock somewhere? Did he have any new messages? What about messages that were new, which his phone had accidentally already filed away? You couldn’t always trust technology, you know.

If he had to wait too long, he would start _thinking_. And, as he had learned, that was a bad idea around here.

Distantly, he thought he heard voices. Probably nothing to do with him, but he couldn’t sit alone in his room any longer. As John left his room the voices grew louder—he recognized them and started to hurry.

“—after midnight, requested him properly—“

“—ridiculous, let him sleep, can’t you wait until morning—“

Sherlock and Sally were arguing in the common room, Sherlock dressed impeccably in a dark suit and Sally no less fierce in a yellow bathrobe. Was it _done_ to text family members out of the blue, John suddenly wondered. All Sherlock had to say was that John started it, and he’d look like even more of a lunatic to Sally than he already did.

He stepped into their view. “Is everything okay?” he asked them, eyes darting from one to the other. Their constant sniping did get to him after a while.

Sally then realized that John was not surprised by Sherlock’s appearance in the slave quarters. “You shouldn’t be bothering him in the middle of the night,” she told Sherlock, “when he’s trying to rest up from what _you_ did to him.”

“I can bother anyone I like,” Sherlock replied, a simple statement of fact. “At any time I like.”

Sally’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She was not intimidated by Sherlock, John had noticed. She had to respect his authority, but she certainly didn’t respect anything else. “Maybe we should just go,” John suggested quickly, meaning him and Sherlock but speaking to Sally, as if he was trying to do something helpful for her.

“Good idea,” Sherlock decided abruptly. He reached over to grab John’s hand, as if to make sure Sally wouldn’t squirrel him away once Sherlock’s back was turned. John gave her a little smile and wave that he hoped was reassuring, though it almost made him run into the wall.

They cleared the slave zone at a swift pace. “Hurry up, John,” Sherlock commanded with annoyance.

“Sorry, your legs are about six feet longer than mine,” John pointed out, doing an awkward half-jog to keep up. He felt rather than saw Sherlock roll his eyes.

They strode through a corridor John didn’t recognize—though at this point everything was a bit blurred—and Sherlock snatched something from a table, passing it to John to carry. “Is this what you meant by energetic?” John asked. “It’s not what I thought it would be. And why do you need this”—he took another look—“really hideous blanket?”

Sherlock stopped abruptly and wheeled around to face John. “Nana made that for me when I was a child,” he stated, indicating the blanket.

“Oh. Um…” John struggled to say something positive about the orange and brown quilt with its randomly-shaped patches. “It’s very well-made,” he continued. “It seems quite cozy and warm.”

“I knew you would come up with some pointless and sentimental comment,” Sherlock claimed, apparently not offended. “It _is_ hideous. Mycroft’s is even worse. Nana wanted him to be a girl, so she made it pink.”

John had a momentary flash of a tiny Lord Mycroft—with his current adult head—snuggled up in a pink quilt while sucking his thumb. The imagery was profoundly disturbing.

“Are you coming?” Sherlock asked, and John saw that he was climbing a ladder attached to a wall, which led up through a trapdoor of some kind. Throwing the quilt over his shoulder, John shook his head and followed him.

“Where are we going?” he asked, futilely. “Are we _supposed_ to be going there?” From Sherlock’s little noise in response he guessed not. “Does this involve the spiders?” he pressed. Sherlock looked down and shushed him vehemently.

They kept climbing. It was a long climb. At least twenty feet by now, John reckoned, and it was starting to get rather warm, especially with the quilt. “Sherlock,” he hissed experimentally, and was shushed again. The setting was looking increasingly industrial, someplace only qualified workmen saw, those who had passed psychological tests about claustrophobia.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped and was working with something above his head, which John couldn’t see properly. Then he started climbing again, and climbed _out_. John came up a few more rungs and stuck his head out of a hatch into warm, muggy air that smelled funny. It took him a moment to realize that was because it was _fresh_ air, not conditioned, and he hadn’t smelled that since he’d first set foot in this place. Eagerly John clambered up onto what seemed to be a roof, ugly concrete slabs marked with pipes and vents, clearly not meant for anything but function.

“Where are we?” he asked, gazing around at the landscape. In the immediate area was mostly roof. “Is this all the compound?” It was more massive than he’d imagined.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. “There’s the city”—a mess of skyscrapers towering over lumpy smaller buildings, all with an orange glow reflected off the smog—“and there’s Fort Nelson.” Low and flat, with rotating search lights. “Can you see the harbor? It’s quite close, really, but hard to make out.” John peered into the darkness where Sherlock pointed, and thought maybe the lights bobbed a bit.

“Wow,” he breathed, taking a big lungful of air. Of course it was a little carbony from the pollution. Sherlock seemed to be allowing him time to look around, so he took it. “And, what are we doing up here?” John finally asked.

Sherlock pointed upwards. “You wanted to see the stars.”

John tipped his head back immediately, eyes stinging as he tried to focus on the twinkling points in the dark sky. “There aren’t so many lights on this part of the roof,” Sherlock went on. “Don’t fall over,” he added sharply, when John started to sway. “Are you light-headed?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” John added, meeting his gaze. Sherlock’s expression in return was curious and clinical—a familiar combination—but John could divine no scientific reason why Sherlock would go along with his whimsical, impractical longing. Other than simply being _nice_. Which seemed a dangerous route to take.

“Spread the blanket out,” Sherlock instructed matter-of-factly. Apparently he had a _plan_ , which seemed slightly more normal to John.

He hesitated. “Won’t it get dirty?”

“I launder it frequently.”

John shrugged and laid Nana’s quilt out on the roof. It was surprisingly large, though it did nothing at all to improve the surroundings. From a distance it sort of reminded John of a squashed turkey.

Sherlock promptly laid down on it and John followed suit, better able to focus on the stars from this position. It was not a crystal black sky, of course, due to the haze—not like the views he’d had in the middle of the desert. But very nice, overall. “It makes me feel very peaceful,” he shared with Sherlock. “Like my problems are really so small, compared to the vastness of the universe.”

He knew Sherlock would not really appreciate this. “Pointless, really. Stars,” Sherlock opined, devoid of sentiment. “If effort spent studying them had been channeled into controlling the weather, we’d never have any delayed flights.”

“That has got to be the most unromantic thing I have ever heard,” John commented with a chuckle.

Sherlock clearly had no idea how that was relevant. “Well, stars are useless for everyday life,” he maintained. “Look how long you’ve gone without them, and no ill effects.”

John was not going to argue with _Sherlock_ for their emotional value to him. “Navigation?” he suggested mildly.

“A historical artifact,” Sherlock proclaimed. “Like caveman bones and outdated mobile phones.”

John had never heard those two things bundled together before. “Thanks,” he said anyway. “For bringing me up here.”

“You were not calm and focused.”

“No.” John almost pointed out that he hadn’t been _with_ Sherlock when he was upset after his nightmare, so why should it matter to the other man, from a logical point of view? But then he realized that would do his cause more harm than good, if Sherlock took offense, so he kept quiet.

After a few minutes he began to squirm, and knocked into Sherlock. “Sorry, my back is still a bit sore,” John confessed. Nana’s quilt was not especially soft.

“Well I can’t move the _stars_ for you, John,” Sherlock proclaimed with annoyance.

The remark made John chuckle a little. “I know. Sorry.” He rolled over on his side, to look at Sherlock and the fort.

But Sherlock had other ideas, and promptly sat up to remove his jacket and shoes. When he started unbuttoning his shirt John began to get alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“Getting undressed,” Sherlock replied scathingly. “Do the same.”

John obeyed automatically, but slowly. “Why? We’re not going to have sex here? On the roof? On Nana’s quilt?”

Sherlock’s expression said yes to each question. “I wish to test a few theories I have about sex in public places,” he explained, as if this was perfectly normal.

John froze with his hand on his trousers. “How public _is_ this?”

“Not very,” Sherlock assured him, as if he was being foolish. “No one’s supposed to come up here and there’s hardly any cameras.” John noticed he didn’t say _no_ cameras. “Only don’t fall asleep, you’ll get a nasty sunburn if you’re out here for too long in the sunlight.”

“Safety first,” John agreed dryly. “Are we planning to be out here that long?”

“I have a number of theories,” Sherlock warned, draping himself naked across the quilt beside John.

It was no longer the idea of getting caught that made John’s heart pound. “Oh really? Well, we don’t want to waste the opportunity…”


End file.
